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  Summer did a quick search of her arms and legs. “It must have been on the roof. Or maybe in that shrub. Maybe there are more of them on me.”

  Gabe pulled her out into the light and ran a hand over her hair, then down her back and hips. Turning her around, he checked her face and neck, then inspected her skirt down to her legs. “You’re good to go. No more nasties that I can see.”

  Summer smiled hesitantly. “Thanks for being so calm.”

  “You’re pretty good in the trenches yourself.” His eyes narrowed as he brushed dirt off Summer’s nose. “Learned that in nanny school, did you?”

  “We learned a lot of things in nanny school.” Summer’s throat felt tight, her pulse erratic. He was too big, too quiet, too close. “Just like I told you, it’s a real profession now.”

  “So you said. Didn’t you hear me tell you to stop moving?”

  “I thought it was just an excuse to rile me.”

  “Never take anything for granted. When I say things, it’s for a reason. Always.”

  The tension between them tightened. As she looked into his eyes, Summer felt the oddest sensation of falling.

  A door slammed up at the house. “Ms. Mulvaney, there you are. Sophy, she is calling you many times.” Imelda, the housekeeper, was staring across the lawn, one hand shading her eyes. “You will be late for her ballet class, I think.”

  Ballet class. Summer glanced at her watch and stifled a curse. “We’ll just make it, if I run.”

  Gabe cleared his throat. “I doubt they teach you to wear your skirt like that in nanny school.”

  When Summer looked down, she saw her skirt was unbuttoned, riding low on her hips. The pale lace of her panties was clearly visible before she straightened the dark wool and jerked the top button closed. “One word and you’re toast, Morgan.”

  “I’ve got a lot of words, honey. Somehow they just don’t seem to apply in this case.” He leaned back against the shed and waved at the house. “You’d better get moving. Be sure you ask Imelda if she saw anything, because I want my facts straight when I talk to Ms. O’Connor later.” His smile faded. “This is one joke those two little hooligans aren’t getting away with.”

  Tugging on his shirt and tool belt, he headed off toward the back fence.

  Never take anything for granted.

  Funny thing for a gardener to say, Summer thought as she sprinted toward the house. But Gabe was right. One or both of the girls were responsible for the locked door, and they needed to be severely reprimanded for their latest trick. Unfortunately, pinning them down now, with the clock ticking for Sophy’s ballet class, would be hard.

  “Sorry,” she muttered as she raced up the steps past Imelda. “I got tied up in the potting shed.”

  “Sophy, she is waiting for you. The first room to the right at the top of the stairs,” the housekeeper added.

  Summer took the steps two at a time, tucking in her shirt as she went. Not that she was nervous about a silly dance class with a surly Russian ballet teacher. If things got too rough, she could always pull her service weapon and shoot out a few kneecaps.

  But the pleasant fantasy faded when she reached Cara O’Connor’s room. A pink leotard lay on the bed, flanked by pink tights and pink toe shoes. Both looked at least two sizes too small for Summer.

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  The girls stopped arguing when they saw her. “We’re going to be late,” Sophy said shrilly.

  “Not if we hurry.” Summer swept a glance at Audra, who stared back coldly. “And after your class, we need to talk about what just happened in the potting shed.”

  She could have sworn Audra snickered, but Sophy stared back, wide-eyed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that the door got locked. I had to climb out through the roof.”

  Sophy’s eyes got bigger. “Really? Gabe tells us we’re not allowed in the potting shed on account of there’s pastry seeds in there.”

  “Pesticides, stupid.” Audra squared her shoulders. “That’s why we don’t ever go near the potting shed.”

  “Except you left your bag there,” Summer pointed out coldly. “Or so you said.”

  Audra shrugged.

  “Want to tell me why?”

  “I forget.”

  “We’re going to be late,” Sophy cut in anxiously. “Don’t you want your clothes, Ms. Mulvaney?”

  Summer began shoving the clothes on the bed into a sports bag. “What size shoes does your mother wear?”

  “Eight,” Audra said nastily. “Her dance costume is a size six.”

  Impossible, Summer thought. She finished putting away the clothes and frowned. “This ballet outfit has sleeves, doesn’t it?”

  Sophy nodded quickly.

  “Fine. Are you two ready?”

  There was a flushed look of excitement on the younger girl’s face. “I’ve been ready for hours. Liberace’s already downstairs in his cage.”

  Summer remembered that they had to take the girls’ pet ferret. “Be sure he doesn’t get out of the cage, because I won’t be stopping in traffic.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Sophy pulled out a pair of pink gloves and smoothed them on over her hands. “Can we go now?”

  “Head ’em up, move ’em out,” Summer muttered.

  Audra glanced at her sister. “Race you to the car, Sophy. First one there gets to choose the music.”

  The two charged off in a chorus of taunts and laughter, and Summer shook her head. For a moment Audra had seemed almost human. Then again, maybe that had been sheer imagination. No matter what, the two girls were going to have to face the music tonight when their mother got home.

  Dropping off Audra at the Monterey Bay Aquarium was Summer’s first task. A burly guard let the teenager in through the staff entrance, then walked over to the car.

  “You must be the new nanny. Ms. O’Connor told me you’d be starting today.” He watched Audra stride inside. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye out for her. Ms. O’Connor told me about the security arrangements.”

  Sophy stared at the guard. “What does that mean?”

  “That your mom is an important lady,” Summer said quietly. “Because she’s so important, we all need to be very careful. No taking rides with anyone but close family, no wandering off. Things like that.”

  The guard walked back inside, but Sophy continued to frown. “I don’t understand. Why do we have to be more careful now?”

  Cara O’Connor’s decision to keep the girls out of the loop about the threats was a bad idea, from what Summer had seen in family threat situations. Children were entitled to know about things that affected their lives, as long as they were told in simple, nonthreatening language. But Cara had been adamant: no mention of danger or details. Nothing that would frighten the girls.

  Sophy stared out the open window, picking at her nail. “Tiffany Hammersmith gets to ride her bike to school. She even gets to ride to town alone on Saturdays. Mom says I’m too young to do that.”

  “She’s right.” Summer had ridden alone everywhere when she was Sophy’s age, but the world had been a different place then, and her mother hadn’t been trying high-profile criminal cases in a major urban center.

  Sophy sank lower in her seat. “Sometimes the other girls call me a baby,” she said quietly.

  Summer swung around, shocked. “That’s not true. They’re just being nasty, honey.”

  Sophy picked at her pink knapsack. “It doesn’t bother me anymore. At least—only a little. Besides, Tiffany Hammersmith is stupid. She wears thong underwear. I’ve seen them when we change for gym class.”

  Summer shook her head. “Thongs are highly overrated.” Summer had tried them once—and only once—since intimate discomfort was not one of her life goals. “By the way, is something wrong with your hands?”

  “No.” Sophy avoided Summer’s eyes as she smoothed her soft pink gloves and flexed her fingers carefully. “I just like to wear them. Sometimes my hands get cold.”

&n
bsp; Was that normal? Summer wondered. But she decided not to push Sophy for more details. “Watch out, Michael Jackson.”

  “Michael who?”

  “Long story, and it’s not important. We’re here.” After she parked in the shaded parking garage, Summer watched Sophy gather her things. “You really don’t know anything about my getting locked in the potting shed?”

  Sophy’s face clouded. “I know Audra’s been pretty mad. She really liked our old nanny and she said she was going to make our mom fire you. But she didn’t tell me anything else.”

  Little girls with Hello Kitty bags and bright backpacks were streaming by, headed for a low building with floor-to-ceiling windows. In the doorway a woman in black leggings and a black sweater stood ramrod straight, nodding stiffly to each of the entering students.

  Summer squared her shoulders. Now or never. “Let’s do it.”

  Sophy’s teacher stopped them at the door, and her eyes narrowed as she looked at Sophy’s gloves. “Have you practiced your pliés this week, Sophy?”

  “Yes, Madame. Twenty minutes every day. More on Saturday.”

  The woman studied Summer. “This is your new governess?”

  Summer smiled and held out one hand, which the dance instructor touched in a perfunctory motion. “And you, Madame, have you much dance experience?”

  “Not here on the West Coast,” Summer lied calmly. “You probably have a different way of doing things, so I’d better watch at first.”

  “No watching. Sophy will require a partner.” The woman’s tone was cold and brisk. “Without a partner she may not participate. This was stated clearly when the summer began.”

  Summer put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “No problem. I can handle whatever is required.”

  “In that case, show your governess where to change, Sophy. And I require that you both be prompt or you will be asked to leave.”

  Thirty small bodies stood nervously at attention before the long wooden bar. Summer ignored her embarrassment and the pain in her cramped toes, lining up with the other mothers and trying to understand the staccato orders that came in French and accented English.

  “Glissez, Tiffany. Shoulders back, and head straight, if you please. Do not giggle, Fiona.” As she patrolled the room, the ballet instructor tapped her charges with a wooden ruler, straightening an arm or correcting the bend of an elbow.

  “And one and two. Like swans, if you please. Not like gorillas.”

  A giggle slipped out somewhere amid the line of pink leotards. With a sinking heart, Summer realized it had come from Sophy.

  “It amuses you, Sophy O’Connor? Bien, you will come to the middle of the room and demonstrate your pliés for all of us. Perhaps that will amuse us, too. And you will remove your gloves first.”

  Sophy’s face flushed fiery red as she peeled off the pink gloves and set them on the bar at the wall.

  “Your partner will also join you, to count the beats.”

  Summer walked out onto the dance floor, resisting an urge to tug at her leotard. “Count when I nod,” Sophy whispered. “One to ten.”

  Summer smiled at Sophy, offering moral support, but the girl’s face was tense with concentration.

  At Sophy’s nod, Summer began her count, feeling a surge of pride as Cara’s daughter moved into a series of perfectly graceful dips. At least they seemed perfect to Summer, who had never been graceful or patient or popular as a girl—and still wasn’t.

  After the last move, Summer smiled broadly. “Great job.”

  But the instructor had different ideas. She pursed her thin lips, pointing at Sophy. “Clumsy lines. Crooked back. You will turn no heads with such flat feet, Sophy. From now on you will increase your daily practice time to one hour.”

  A titter ran through the other girls, but it was quickly suppressed by the instructor’s cold glare. “Back in line, all of you. Third position. Partners will call out movements. Vite, vite.”

  Summer felt a haze of sweat on her brow. At Quantico she had squatted in a tactical Nomex suit under the sweltering August sun. She’d run obstacle courses in frigid rain and fieldstripped her weapon in total darkness by feel alone.

  But nothing beat ballet classes for sheer hell.

  When the girls filed to the studio door thirty minutes later, the instructor singled Summer out. “You studied dance in the East, Ms. Mulvaney? How curious that I have never seen such feet positions before.”

  Summer smiled, volunteering nothing. The witch should be teaching sharks at the aquarium, not innocent girls.

  She noticed that Sophy pulled her gloves on as soon as they left the room. “Are your hands still cold, Sophy?”

  “A little.”

  “Have you told your doctor?”

  A tight head shake.

  Summer started to speak, but Sophy bowed her shoulders and plunged into the chaos of the big, open changing room, clutching her backpack. She looked slightly sick, Summer thought. Most of the other girls were staring and Summer heard a whispered “baby” as they walked to the front row of lockers. She had a sudden and entirely wonderful idea for retaliation.

  Sitting down next to Sophy, she toed off her pink slippers. “When are you going to pick out your new dress?”

  Big gray eyes blinked at her. “What new dress?”

  “For the wedding. Rehearsal dinner, remember? Tom Cruise is coming and you don’t want to wear just any old rag for Mr. Mission Impossible, do you?”

  Sophy stared up at her, knapsack clutched to her chest. “Tom Cruise?”

  “Sure.” Summer bent down and picked up her street clothes, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Play along, and we’ll really give them something to gossip about.”

  Sophy began to smile. “Oh, right. I forgot all about the rehearsal dinner. Do you think he likes pink?”

  “Why don’t we call and ask? Tom owes your mom a favor since she agreed to be a legal advisor for his next movie.” Summer hid a smile. Heads were starting to turn, just as she’d hoped. “You know what he said to your mom?” She could feel the curiosity growing, hot and sharp, as she bent closer to Sophy. “Laugh. Really loud.”

  Sophy’s clear voice rang out on cue.

  “That’s what your mom told me, word for word.” Summer tossed Sophy her shoes. “How about we call him on the way home?”

  Sophy blinked. “You mean, I could call Tom Cruise? Right now?”

  “Absolutely.” When Summer stood up, thirty sets of eyes lasered in her direction. “Ready to go?” she asked sweetly.

  All motion stilled in the room.

  “You bet,” Sophy bubbled, shrugging on her knapsack. “I bet Tom likes pink best.”

  “Bet you a dollar he goes for red. Really hot red.” Summer pulled out her cell phone and tapped it thoughtfully on her chin. “Why don’t you call him and see? The number is already programmed. Just press three on the speed dial.”

  The silence around them was fierce as they walked through the room. This time no one whispered “baby” or anything else at Sophy.

  Summer hoped Cara O’Connor wouldn’t mind the white lie. At least Sophy was standing tall now, a grin engulfing her face.

  Not bad for her first day on the job, Summer decided.

  chapter 5

  Assistant DA’s Office

  San Francisco

  It was supposed to be the most wonderful week of her life. She was healthy, successful, engaged to a wonderful man—and about to choose her wedding dress.

  But Cara O’Connor sat stiffly at her desk, tied up in a thousand little knots.

  Her softly tailored suit was immaculate as she spoke on the phone, jotting shorthand notes on a yellow legal pad with the pen her daughter had given her last Mother’s Day. “I don’t believe any of this, Tony.”

  “Believe it. Chain of evidence was shot to hell. The nurse at the clinic bagged the blood sample, but he didn’t take it to be refrigerated until after he handled a gunshot wound and had a smoke on the fourth-floor balcony.”

 
; Three weeks before, an eighteen-year-old Berkeley coed had been shot, assaulted, and left unconscious in a Chinatown alley. She’d managed to stagger to a small neighborhood clinic, where she was treated before police were called. Once she was lucid, she’d targeted her attacker as the honor-student president of a fraternity near her dorm. According to her account, they’d argued and he’d threatened her with the gun, then shot her and assaulted her.

  The case should have been open-and-shut, but faulty procedure in collection of physical evidence could hammer the strongest case full of holes.

  Cara closed her eyes. “This guy gets a medal for stupid.”

  “Afraid it gets worse. Our friend thought he’d be helpful, so he cleaned the bullet they pulled out of the patient’s chest and wrote her name on it.”

  Cara muttered a few choice phrases. A good defense lawyer could demand that the bullet be pulled as evidence, given this kind of mishandling. “What about her hands? Any signs of struggle? DNA evidence recovered?”

  Her colleague sighed. “He washed her up with Betadyne. Cleaned her real good. Said her parents wouldn’t want to see her like this.”

  “Don’t tell me we’ve got nothing?”

  “The forensic people are going through her clothes and the other evidence now. We may get lucky, but the nurse dumped everything in a pile, so there’s a chance of cross contamination.”

  Cara braced herself. “Do I want to hear this?”

  “Probably not. A couple of tourists came into the clinic with food poisoning right about then. They threw up all over the victim’s clothes and shoes.”

  Sometimes fate spits in your face, Cara thought, and this was one of those times. “Make a note to see this nurse gets a crash course in preservation of physical evidence, okay? Threaten to yank his license, whatever, but see that he doesn’t pull a stunt like this again.”

  “You got it.”

  “Now give me some good news, Tony. Tell me that we’ve got a deal in the Rothman case.”

  Marcus Rothman was a prominent gay painter who had recently learned that his longtime lover was walking out for a younger man. Rothman had planned a nice, civilized farewell meal—and then fed his lover his favorite sushi, nicely marinated in wasabi and Drano, resulting in a particularly unpleasant death.